I was a member of the Merchant Marine, and my ship was laid up for engine repairs in Bremerhaven, Germany. I had a 3 day weekend pass and decided to visit the Netherlands. I hitched a ride to Bremen in the British Enclave, and from there hitched a ride on a Swedish bus headed to Paris via Amsterdam and Brussels. Unlike ours, this bus was a tractor, pulling a separate body which was a bus. After about an hour a soldier came to me asking if I was Jewish, and could speak Yiddish. I asked why, and he told me there were two teen age refugee girls in the back of the bus, going from a DP camp in Sweden, to one in Paris, and they were miserable. I sat with them and between my limited Yiddush, and little better German, we were able communicate. They were the only survivors of the family, but as these conversations usually go, where are you from, to which I replied, New York City. Where and I said Brooklyn. They had an uncle in Brooklyn, who was a baker in a bakery 2 blocks from my home. Weeks later, back in the States, I walked into the bakery and asked fore the baker, who came out to speak to me. I told him I had regards for him and told him their names. He had not heard from the Red Cross, and did not know they were alive. He began to cry and hug me. I in a dark blue uniform, and he in a flour crusted apron. Anyway, I walked out with all kinds of fancy pastries to take home. A year later I found he had contacted the camp in Paris, and brought his two nieces to the US. At a later date I was able to find a distant cousin and family down in Turkheim, Bavaria, and her brother in a DP camp in Bari, Italy. My family brought them all over to the US.